Rise Like Lions
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: The end of the First War need, as the Horde closed in on Stormwind. But, the lion was the emblem of their kingdom. The defenders of Azeroth would fly their banners, and live up to their sigil.


**Rise Like Lions**

"Why you scratching your privates, Private?"

"My balls itch."

"Well, go to Greystanes or something. I hear the brothel there makes men part with their copper faster than a cow takes a shit."

Private Baker grimaced at Corporal Fowler's comments. He nonetheless continued to scratch at the codpiece of his plate armour, trying and failing to alleviate the itch. As he gave up the task and stood up straight, he could only be grateful that he didn't have to pee.

"Got it?" Fowler asked.

"No."

"Well, Greystanes is only two miles away, and-"

"No."

"Really?"

"No," Baker repeated.

Fowler raised an eyebrow – "you're not a eunuch are you?"

"Lay off him."

Both footmen turned to look at Corporal Carpenter. He was lying against the sign of the crossroads, crossbow spread across his chest as he dozed. He was the oldest of the three men, and the most quiet. Quiet for the week that Baker had known him, and quiet this evening. Only one of Azeroth's moons illuminated the night sky, but the oil lamp that hung above them made up for the lack of light.

"Yeah, sure," Fowler murmured. He yawned, and leant against the lamppost. "Welcome to the King's Army Baker. Honour and glory for all."

"Not much of that left in the world," Baker murmured. "Or, not much in Azeroth at least."

He kept his eyes focused on the road that led south. A road that, if he so cared to travel it, would take him past ruined villages, ruined towns, and eventually, into ruined lands. The orcs didn't just destroy everything they touched, their very presence appeared to drain the life out of the kingdom. Some said it was due to the portal they had emerged from, others from the warlocks in their ranks. Others claimed it was both.

"Why you here, Baker?"

Baker glanced at his superior. "What?"

"Why you here?" Fowler murmured. "We're serving a king who leads from his velvet throne in his velvet cage, and leaves us for the wolves." He spat onto the dirt. "Why you here?"

Baker glanced at the banner that flew behind them – the Lion of Azeroth, its golden visage shining against a blue background. They were but three men, none of them assigned to any lord or knight, but even lowly guards were to fly the kingdom's colours.

"Well?"

"I'm here," Baker said, "because it's better to be a lion for a day than a sheep for a lifetime."

Carpenter snorted. "You got Drill Sergeant Butcher too?"

"Yes…?" Baker ventured.

Fowler smirked. "Poor sod. Guy tells that to every wet behind the ears recruit that passes by his boot."

"Then why are you here?" Baker shot back.

"Because it's my job. Because King Llane bids that the crossroads between Stormwind and Greystanes are manned, and by Light and land, I'll obey his bidding."

"I'm here for the copper," Carpenter said.

"Right," Baker began, clenching a gauntleted fist. "Well, I'm here because my family is living in the streets of Stormwind because there isn't enough room for all the refugees. And if this is the kingdom's end, I'd rather die with a spear in my hands rather than as a lamb waiting for its throat to be cut." He sighed. "I should know. I used to be a shepherd."

"Sword," Fowler said.

"What?"

"Sword," Fowler repeated. "It's die with a sword in your hands, not spear."

"Fuck you."

Fowler chuckled. Cooper leant even further back against the lamppost. Baker stood straighter, peered through the gloom, and cursed that he did indeed now have to pee. If fate existed, she was a cruel mistress.

Cruelty that rivalled that of the orcs, he reflected. It hadn't always been like this. For three years they'd menaced the kingdom, but that was it – 'menaced.' Then, everything had changed. They'd become more cohesive, more belligerent, more daring. From what he'd heard, their old warchief had been killed, and their new leader was possessed of cunning as well as strength. Doomcleaver, Doomwielder, Doomhammer, he couldn't be sure. Doom-something at least. And true to form, doom made its way through the Kingdom of Azeroth. Doom crept further and further towards Stormwind, despite the efforts of Sir Lothar. Doom crept further towards them, and King Llane did nothing. He defended his kingdom, but that was all. _Defended_. Baker knew he wasn't a learned man, but Father Kryten had given him and some other children of his village a basic understanding of history. That had included the wars of old, and none of them had ever been won by remaining on the defensive.

"Company," Fowler said.

Carpenter sprung up, crossbow in hand. He raised it, and sighed. "Travellers." He shoved Fowler. "Keep your trap shut next time."

"Had to wake you up somehow."

Baker let them bicker as he saw the approaching coach. One horse, one rider, and three passengers – a woman, a boy who was asleep, and an infant who clung at her breast. He guessed immediately that they were refugees – no goods accompanied them in the wagon. And as they drew near, he could smell the stench of blood.

"Hail King Llane," he said, raising a hand in greeting. "May the blessings of the Light go with you."

The wagon driver glanced at him – Baker saw that he was missing an eye.

"Fuck the king," he said. "And fuck your blessings."

Baker remained silent as the wagon drew on. Anger welled within him – anger in the knowledge that they'd lost their home, anger in the knowledge that Stormwind would offer them little refuge, anger in the knowledge that all he could do was stand here and utter platitudes. He was a footman with sword, shield, spear, and banner. He'd imagined he'd be marching off to battle, not playing at guard duty.

"Say," Fowler said eventually. "Why you called Baker anyway?"

"Hmm?" He was barely paying attention.

"Baker," Fowler said. "You said you were a shepherd, but you bear the surname of a baker. So, how so?"

Baker opened his mouth, ready to tell the long, very interesting story of how that was the case.

"Orcs!"

And never got the chance. It was Cooper who called out. Cooper who raised his crossbow, and Cooper who was impaled by a throwing spear, its tip piercing his chainmail armour.

"Forward!"

Baker stood there, frozen. Orcs. Three of them. Two male, one female, specifically the group's spearthrower. Green-skinned beasts, seven feet tall. Barely armed, barely armoured. But by numbers alone, their doom.

"Shit!" Fowler picked up the crossbow from Cooper's corpse. He fired a bolt, missing. "Shit!"

Baker glanced back at the wagon. The driver had seen the orcs and was trying to get his horse to move, but orcs were fast, as well as strong. They'd easily reach a horse-drawn wagon at this close distance. He took a step to join them…

But remained in place. With spear and shield, he stood ready. The banner of Azeroth flew behind him. No banner flew by these orcs, whether it be one of their clans, or the "Horde" they were said to be part of. Fowler fired a second time, and one of the grunts fell, a bolt impaled through his eye. Scowling, the spearthrower hurled a second spear at the footman. Fowler yelled, but no harm came to pass, as Baker intercepted the projectile with his shield. The spear clunked off into the dirt.

"Nice," Fowler said. He dropped the crossbow before picking up his sword and shield. "Just want you to know that before we die."

Baker said nothing. Two orcs were closing in on them. One on one, few were capable of taking on one of these creatures and winning. He'd only seen them as a peasant, but now, clad in full-plate armour, he felt just as vulnerable.

The grunt charged, swinging his axe. He blocked it with his shield, and yelled, as the wood cracked, and he felt something in his arm snap. A second axe swing, and his shield had been removed.

"Azeroth! Azeroth!" he cried, swinging his sword. The orc blocked his every blow. He looked up at it – it was _grinning_ at him.

"I'll kill you," he whispered. He jumped back from the swing of its axe. "I'll kill you."

Smarter, not stronger. That was the advice Anduin Lothar had imparted to all defenders of the realm. He had to wait, turn his smaller size into an advantage. Dodge the orc's blows, seize his chance, and-

He never got it. He saw the spear go through his chest before he felt the pain. Glancing before he fell, he saw that Fowler was already dead, blood pouring out from his neck. He fell down into the dirt, as well as his own blood. Like a lamb, he had been gutted. He closed his eyes, ready to be taken by the Light to the hereafter.

"Pinkskin."

His body was kicked over, and he found himself looking up at his killers. Male, female, both monsters.

"Why fight, pinkskin?"

'Pinkskin.' Not only had the orcs picked up some Common, they'd found their own insult for their foes. Right now, he barely cared. The longer he stayed alive, the longer they'd keep their focus on him, and not the family who'd passed him by.

"Speak, pinkskin." The female orc kicked him. And through bloody mouth and broken body, he smiled.

"Better to be a lion for a day…than a sheep for a lifetime."

Did they understand his words? He couldn't say. He heard nothing. Soon, saw nothing.

Before long, as oblivion took him, felt nothing as well.


End file.
